


Pride

by the_diversionist



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, F/M, Slow Build, borderline rivalmance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-08-15 21:44:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8073817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_diversionist/pseuds/the_diversionist
Summary: Sera falls in love with the Inquisitor.





	1. Chapter 1

A/N: I've had this kicking around on my hard drive for years. Still plugging away at the newest diplomacy chapter but thought I'd maybe throw this up in the meantime. I never finished this story because I kept rearranging it. There's about 30 pages down. Maybe a chapter or two until it's done? Sera POV. You have been warned?

* * *

 

Herald. Heeerraaaaaald. Harold? No, she doesn’t like that.

Smart. Smart enough, anyway. But how smart is smart, to follow arrows, clues, red kerchiefs? Not so clever, but just enough to get to her, so’s good enough. The word was good, the prick is dead, the Inquisition is in Orlais and she’s come. Heeraaaald. The Herald. And doesn’t it fucking figure, it’s an elf and not just _an_ elf, _the_ , elf. That kind, with the marks, easy marks, like banners, spotted from far off.

The Herald greets Sera with a curious, puzzled smile, a twinkle in her eyes, bright green against that cinnamon skin, bright like the light that tears the sky apart. She glows. Didn’t think anyone could glow like that. Her hand bursts with light as if it’s trying to get out from inside her. Sera’s exhilarated and terrified in one. That kind of thing, it’s not right, is it?

Sera looks at the Herald’s people. Ah, Madame de fucking Fer. That’s just great, innit? It’s a good thing she’s decided to join up. Madame de Fer is the last right sort of cunt who should be making any kind of decisions in the Inquisition. Vivienne is as big as they get, or she wishes. There’s another elf, even more elfy than the Herald, even without the marks on his face, bald, like a hairless cat she saw once. Doesn’t like the look of him, he looks like a shit, or like he needs to take one or smelt one, something. There’s a human, a woman, a damn good sight, quite fit. Sera likes the way the armor sticks to her, the sharp angles of her face, the way she looks around Val Royeux as if she were stranded in someone’s armpit.

“So… what can you offer, exactly?” The Herald asks. “You’re good at stealing breeches.” Sera grins and looks at the soldiers scattered around, bare assed in the moonlight. “But there are demons…” Wait, what. “And a political situation ready to roll over.” The warrior woman makes a noise of disgust. “I love a good prank as much as anyone but how can you help the Inquisition?” Loves pranks, does she? That’s surprising. But good. Real good. Didn’t know Dalish had a sense of humor, thought they preferred to swim laps in pools of tears, wells of sorrows, that sort of bit.

“This has been a waste of time, my dear,” Vivienne says. Sera scowls. “The Red Jennies are disorganized rogues. There are legends, to be sure, but _this_ girl… What can she possibly offer the Inquisition? She’ll be a distraction.”

“What? No. She gets a say?” Sera’s temper flares. “Look, I can bring people, the type that matter, the ones that see everything but no one see. Little people. Little people who can take down the big people. You saw me with the bow, yeah? I’ve got arrows. Lots. I don’t miss,” she looks at Vivienne whose eyebrows arch only slightly. “I mean, do you need people or what?”

The Herald looks to the hairless one. “What do you think?”

The Elfy one stares at Sera, looking deep in a way she doesn’t like. He looks pleased that the Herald has asked. “The Red Jennies have a reputation. She might prove useful. If not, she can be asked to leave. It’s your decision.”

Sera looks at the group. Staff, staff, staff. Andraste’s ass, they’re all mages, except the one with the mean look and the sword. Sera decides she’ll stick close to that one if she _can_ come along. She doesn’t like magic. Can’t trust nothing you can’t touch. But she really wants to come along, kind of needs to come along so she’ll work around it. There’s been something burning inside her since all this shite started. It’s more than wanting things to get back to normal but she can’t explain it better than that and thinking about it just makes her head hurt.

The Herald cocks a slow smile that makes Sera’s heart stammer. “ All right, Sera. To the Void with good judgment. Welcome to the Inquisition.”

“Ugh,” the woman with the Eye giving her the Hairy Eyeball on her chest says. “You want to make this as difficult as you can for Josephine, don't you?”

Sera cheers. This is going to be grand.

* * *

 

Not much of a place though, is it? Bloody cold, the ground is too hard, not as big as she thought it’d be. She likes the tavern all right, though she can’t say she fancies the way everyone talks about her as if she can’t hear. You’d think they’d know she listens. They seem to know she’s a Jenny and what does a Jenny do but listen and prank and kill? Not to mention she’s an elf so she’s got the big ears.

Still, Haven’s big enough. Not enough for it to be fun or anything but enough so that she doesn’t have to spend all her time in the tavern. Outside, the wind blows the snow about and she wonders why she ever missed Ferelden. The breach in the sky is bigger than ever. She shudders, not sure if it’s the cold or the willies the stupid hole in the sky gives her.

Sera stops short when she spots the Herald rounding the corner. And with Solas, of course she is. Their lot always has to stick together. He looks serious as the Blight but the Herald still smiles. Never met a Dalish who didn’t get off on regret and their sorrows.

“And the Herald.” She cocks her head up to the sky. “You’re the only one with the glowy hand. What are you waiting for?”

The Herald blinks. “Oh, sure. But why seal the Breach when I can use this power to gather an unstoppable army to take over Thedas? The Dalish will _rise again_.” She curls a fist. What? Wait, what shit criking crap, what? The Herald grins. “If I could just seal the damned thing, I’d do it. Do you think I _want_ to be here?”

“Perhaps not,” Solas says, “but as the only survivor of the Conclave and as one of the people, the world will look to you with a particularly critical eye. You must be ready to exceed even they’re wildest expectations if you are to succeed.”

“Do you ever say happy things?” The Herald asks him. Sera grins. He gives a small, tight smile. “I like it better when we flirt.” Sera’s smile fades. Solas glances at Sera and excuses himself. The Herald takes a breath. It occurs to Sera that she doesn’t know her name. It’s probably something weird. “So, Sera, I was looking for you.”

“I hope it’s not more questions. I’m out of answers.” Questions make her head hurt, less than beatings, more than beer.

“There are some locks beneath the chantry. I was hoping you could take a look at them?” She’s moving towards the chantry, anticipating Sera will follow. Sera does. Everyone looks at them and it makes her skin crawl. Two elves walking together. The Herald moves along like it doesn’t bother her.

“What? You really think you’ll find something good looking through sisters’ drawers?”

“Leliana was a sister once. Would you really mind looking through her drawers?”

When she puts it like that… “You’re full of it.” Hard to imagine, that. But maybe. Shadows of Birds is a mysterious one, right pretty, too. But scary. Sera steals a glance at the Herald. The Herald looks back and Sera quickly looks away. Stupid elf. “So, _Herald_. Don’t like that name. Not much. People have to be more than a title. Your name isn’t really _Harold_ is it? Cause that would be weird.”

“Harold? The clan would kick me out for that alone.”

Sera giggles. “Stupid lot, yours.” The Herald’s gaze is on her again. “I mean—why so serious? Would they really kick you out for that? That’s daft.” The Herald’s smile is unreadable and Sera’s face warms. Not the sun. The Herald hasn’t said a word but it feels like she’s being made fun of. “All right, fine, so what’s your name anyway?”

“Ellana Lavellan.”

“What’s that? You’re not trying to talk to me, are you? Some… Dalish gibberish? Or is it a name? Your name?” The Herald frowns. Oh. So that is the name.

“Do you go out of your way to be rude or is it a natural talent?”

“I mean—it’s not all bad, the name. Sounds a bit like a song, yeah?” The Herald’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Not that I’d sing it. I can’t sing. Make your ears bleed bad, I am.”

“Right. Tell me when you get those locks opened, will you?” She moves away.

“Wait, you’re not coming?”

“Not with you.”

“That’s what she—” Wait, what? Was that a joke? Do Dalish make jokes?

* * *

 

Cassandra eyes her warily. “What are you doing in here?” It’s night, late, the War Room, the chantry, never locked up, always open, which is maybe the point.

“I’d ask but I’m pretty sure I know. ‘We must always be ready,’” she imitates though it sounds nothing like Cassandra, the voice too deep and gruff. All her impersonations sound alike. “Why aren’t you at the tavern having a drink? You have to take the armor off sometime, right? You’re going to burst.” But not out of the armor because she’s like rock, she is. Sera takes a seat on the war table, picking up a sovereign, flipping it and setting it back down. Bet the scowly one thought she’d steal it. Proved her wrong, she did.

“There is nothing wrong with wearing armor during a war.” Cassandra sets aside the sheets of paper she looks over. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten my question. Why are you here?”

Truth is, she doesn’t really know. Cassandra’s good. Her head’s on her shoulders the right way, nice looking too but more than that—she’s true, clear, easy, simple. Not in a bad way. Like an outline. Anyway, she’s always felt more comfortable around humans than her ‘own’. “I like you. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am, but about things.” Doubt she does much of the other, though she probably should, probably wouldn’t be laced up so tight then. “So… this Herald—I mean, a Dalish—it can’t be real, right? Why would _Andraste_ send an elf, not just a regular type, an _elfy_ elf. You can’t believe it. You don’t. You’d be daft to, yeah?”

“I do believe it. In the beginning I thought I was the only one but that is not the case anymore. She can seal the rifts in the sky and for better or worse, she was the lone survivor at the Conclave. You have seen her in battle and she has a way of rallying others around her. That must mean something.” Maybe, but why? It doesn’t have to. Sera spends a few moments concentrating, her brow fiercely burrowed. “Normally I would not ask but it is no secret how you feel about the Dalish. Are you Andrastian, Sera? Do you believe in the Maker?”

“Yeah, sure.” But as an idea, more like. Sometimes the chantry folks help people and that’s good. They’ve got the templars who keep mages in line and then you’ve got old Seekers like this one, who keep the templars in line. Order and things getting back to normal. That’s how she wants it. “But I don’t really like to sit around talking about it.” Or thinking about it. She wanted a better answer from Cassandra. “I’m not going to believe it. Herald, sure, glowy mark, great. Maybe it’s just more weird magic.” She thinks she’d believe it better from a human or a dwarf, or maybe a qunari. “You know how the Dalish are with their elfy things… elfy ways… spirits blah blah blah. Maybe whatever that thing on her hand is more of the same.” A beat. “I mean, how can _you_ believe it? You were the Divine’s Right Hand, yeah? Don’t they teach against elves? Thought so,” she mutters. “And she’s a mage. I mentioned that. You know, right?”

“You sound worried.”

“Not worried. I mean, sure, magic everywhere, you’d be mad not to worry. But really, the robes don’t bother you? Why are they so powerful? Where does all that bit come from? What if it _is_ demons and spirits? How do you _know_?”

“I don’t. I have faith. That is why it is faith.”

Sera frowns. Fuck buckets. That’s no help.

* * *

 

Seems taller than she actually is. Sera has to tell herself over and over that the Herald is not as tall as Cassandra. Lavellan walks with her back straight, chin up. Maybe it’s just what her lot does, walking around like they’re better than everybody but with her it isn’t like that, not exactly, which is _weird_. Everything about the Herald should irritate the shit out of her but it’s harder than it should be.

The Herald should look out of place in Val Royeux. In a way she does. She's not prissy and stuck on herself like the nobles that scurry over the city. Doesn't have the mask, doesn't have the clothes but she moves about like she doesn’t know she’s an elf, walks around like it’s her right, walks around like it’s her city. It makes Sera warm a bit, good and uncomfortable. She bites the inside of her lower lip.

No one at Haven can keep their eyes off Lady Herald. Sera’s noticed Blackwall, Cullen, Solas, even Lady Josephine, checking her out. It’s not just that she’s the Herald. It can’t be just that. “What was a Dalish doing at the Conclave?” Sera asks, getting a gentle frown in response. “I mean, your type tries to stay away from people, right? I can’t figure why you’d be invited.”

“I wasn’t. I was crashing the party. Keeper’s orders. It's probably why Cassandra took me prisoner, now that I think of it.”

“You putting me on?”

“Yes. Let’s go with that. I’m putting you on.”

“Well, that's shit. You ask questions all the time.” Where is she from, where’d she learn to shoot, who are the Red Jennies, did you take Leliana’s quill, she is going to murder you.

“Right, and you go out of your way to answer.” The Herald stops and Sera follows suit. “Whatever Cassandra told you, I'm fine on my own.”

Cassandra said she might say that. She made her swear not to leave Lavellan’s side. Cassandra’s right pretty, but must hate her to put her on Herald guard duty. “Pfft. No you're not. You're the Herald, which means people want to hurt you and you're a Dalish, which means maybe they should and you don't know the first thing about being on your own.”

“About as much as you know about being Dalish.”

“Know enough. Not as much as you'd like but enough. And _no,_ that wasn't an invitation. I don’t want to hear it.” She plants her hands on her hips. Lavellan walks faster. “Don't try to get the slip on me. I'm good at keeping up.” Prissy Dalish acts like she didn’t hear. “You're not sneaking off, are you? To get some arse?” That sounds fun. More fun than walking around Val Royeux, clothes shopping.

“What?” Her cheeks darken. “No. But if I were it wouldn't be any of your business.”

“Bet Cassandra would make it hers. Ugh!” And she can't tell if she's frustrated or just imitating Cassandra. “I can't even imagine it.” Except saying the words is like a spell and she does imagine it, for a brief, scalding moment, Lavellan naked and in the throes of passion. The body isn't quite right, though. Elves don't have tits like that. Do the marks go all over? Is her skin soft? Her eyes are so bright. _Shut it, shut it, shut your brain._ “You're the Herald of Andraste. Does that make your peach Divine or something? Holy?” She laughs. “Holey! Cause, vagina.”

“Please stop talking.”

“You're no fun.”

“You just don't know me.”

Solas and Blackwall soon find them and Sera breathes a little easier. Let them have their stupid crush. And run interference. And have involved conversations about the Inquisition. Too much thinking, not enough doing, the answer is always arrows, the pointy end of the sword, and when things are desperate, magic.

The three walk ahead of her, Blackwall and Solas seemingly engaged in some quiet competition, some Game, which is right, maybe, seeing that they're in Orlais. Sera takes the time to study Lavellan’s face, the way the blood writing twines like spilling, laced water over her forehead, the lines that swoop over her cheeks, drawing attention to her shapely lips, the dark line running center over her lower lip, down her chin, down her neck like vines.

The Herald turns, while Blackwall and Solas argue about something that Sera’s sure is serious but probably’s about dick measuring. Their eyes meet and Lavellan’s lips lift, lifting before turning away again. “Keep up, Sera.”

Sera trips over a loose cobblestone. Why don't they fix their friggin streets? Andraste’s tits, she almost fell on her arse. She can't remember the last time she was so embarrassed. She is not blushing.


	2. Chapter 2

There's a song inside her, bursting, bristling, snaking around every piece of her, glowing red, like a Jenny, pulsing with the beat of her heart, or something squishy.

It's growing inside her and she doesn't want it, doesn't want this, this world, caged and dirty, suffer suffer, everything dead and dying, those that matter. Hasn't seen the sun in too long. The bars were cold once but now thrum, warm to the touch, the rocks around her sing and whisper. It's not good. None of it.

How long here? Not sure. What's the song? Needs to hold on to something. Maybe the song. Bees. Bees… The… Oh, what was it? She’ll kill Alexius. Magister shit eater. Kill him, kill him, keep it like a mantra. Anger’s good. Needs… something to—

What was the song? “Willows…” She tests it out, letting her voice go where it hasn’t in too long. “Where willows were… Where? We… waited…” That it? Something like that? Willows… “Ugh. Remember, stupid. They can’t take that from you.”

Lavellan walks cautiously to the cell. The other mage is with her, the one with the twirly mustache. No, no, not more mages, more tricks, more magic, screwing with her head. Sera shakes, steps back. “No, no, no, you can’t be here. You’re dead and they don’t come back.”

Lavellan and the twirly mustache exchange looks. His name. What was his name? Dorian? The Herald smiles nice like. “You’re right. I’m a spirit and I’ve come back to haunt you.”

“You’re not helping,” he tells the Herald. “No one is dead. Alexius used time magic.”

“Talk sense or shut it. I can’t think about him. Might not know. There were so many. The day you died—I ran out of arrows making them pay. Then it didn’t matter anymore. You’ve got demons and gods and I’ve got a bow. And it just… I want them to hurt.”

Lavellan’s face softens. “I'm sorry I teased you. Come out of there. It's all right. We’re going to fix this.”

“Right. Like you can. It's happened.” She can't get her voice in a straight line. Lavellan draws the cell door open and they stare at each other for moments while Sera feels the pulse inside her, still singing, growing into something like a chant, deafening. She's sick. Something’s happened and she's going to die. Knows it. Can't get around. “Are you real?” She can't believe it, doesn't want any of this to be.

“I'm here and I'm real.” Her hand touches fleeting on Sera’s face and Sera absorbs a warmth she hasn't known in ages, skin, contact, something other than singing stone and a cell. “I need you to focus, all right? We’ll find Alexius. We’ll make him sorry he was born.”

The anger, the vengefulness is like a balm, soothing, proper. “Right. Yeah. Pincushion. We’ll cut him down. If you’re really here, I’ll friggin die to spit in his face.”

Relief settles briefly on Lavellan’s face. “That's my girl.”

* * *

 

“Hey, you.” Sera sits by the stream, throwing blades of grass into it. They’ve camped for the night. A moon hangs fat and low. Sera wonders if she’ll knock her head on it. The Herald sits next to her, legs stretched out, arms draped over her knees. “Look, I get it. You saved the world, yay. But I’m still mad. Not going to stop being mad. Don’t want to talk, not really. So…”

The Herald did it. Stopped Alexius, saved everything, good, cause that’s her job. But still, all said and done and she invites the Grand Enchanter and all the robes back to Haven, no questions asked, no problems, like they weren’t the reason the whole world went to shite after they were killed in that awful chantry in Redcliffe. Never liked mages, never liked magic, wants them far away from her and now they’re moving in.

“You don’t know what it was like,” Sera goes on when the Herald is silent. “It was wrong, what you did. Must know it, too, that’s why you haven’t got any words. Usually talk a lot, you, but now…” she snatches up another clump of grass. “It _hurts_.”

“Still?”

“I’m not talking about the red stuff that sings. Lyrium. Red lyrium. Not that.” Though that wasn’t good either. It grew inside her for a year until her brain and heart began to feel like light. “I’m talking about what you did. Letting them come to Haven, like they’re not snakes, like they’re not dangerous. ‘Oh, sure, you nearly destroyed the entire world, come back to Haven for a spot of tea; we’ll protect you’. It’s rubbish.”

“I don’t sound like that.”

“Worse, like. You say dumber things. Point is, you wouldn’t have done it if you knew. You weren’t there. You don’t know what it was like.” It’s in her now, in her bones, dug deep. She’ll never be able to forget. She’s afraid to sleep, wake up and realize that all the doing, all the stopping of Alexius was the made up part. What if she wakes up in a cell? What if it starts growing out of her in spikes? What if there is no Herald? What if she’s still dead?

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Lavellan shifts to look at her. “We need their power. If arrows and swords could seal the Breach I’d go with that but it isn’t enough. I can’t take them back to Haven as prisoners. This whole mage rebellion started because they were kept prisoners. Matters will continue to escalate if we keep trying the same things.”

“I thought you Dalish liked tradition.”

“Oh, sure. So much so, we rub it off to tradition.”

“What? Really?” She brightens. Ah, she knew it. _Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it._

“What happened in that future…” she considers. “I know we have our differences. Maybe we’re all differences. But I won't forget what you gave for me. You died. Solas, Leliana. I can't… unsee it.”

Sera laughs. “Forgotten that's our job, Lady Herald? Killing baddies, keeping you not dead so you can close all the holes in the sky. I’m glad you can’t unsee. This Inquisition has lots of little people, littler than me, giving it all for you. Best to remember that when this Inquisition turns into something real. But I don’t _want_ to die again, so watch the robes, watch your arse and stop with the droopy sad face. You’re better without, yeah? Solas is happy you took the mages in. Don’t like him much. Soft, like. A little hard for you too, I bet.”

The Herald’s cheeks darken. “Moving on. I’m glad someone’s on my side.”

“Are you daft? We’re all on your side, stupid.”

* * *

 

The Herald and Solas are spending more time together. Wankers. Sera drinks, journals, defaces Josephine’s notes on her and avoids Maryden, which is tricksy seeing she lives where Maryden works.

Whatever. Mostly she's bored. She wants to shoot things. She tries to read on Andraste a bit (boring), the Creators (Elfy and boring) and all the rest of it, which only gets her a headache.

“Why don't you let me touch that mop of head of yours,” Dorian suggests. “With enough time you might even look presentable. The hair would only be the start, of course. There's also the clothing. Everything you own is torn and stained; you look the very image of a poverty stricken alienage elf.”

“I'll poverty strike you. Presentable enough. Piss on presentable.” She lies on the seats by the window, upside down, staring up at his confounded face. “That why you came here? To play dress up?”

“Me? Come to Ferelden for high fashion? Perish the thought. Tevinter mages may have started the Blight but we also taught Orlais a thing or two about refined tastes.”

“What's refined taste but having shit in your mouth long enough to like it?”

“I believe you're thinking of an acquired taste. Sera. For my sanity and that of those around me, allow me to gift you a dictionary.”

“Don't need none of that.”

“Of course not. Very well, have it your way. There is a qunari downstairs. Bull told me to come fetch you. For the life of me I cannot conceive what a qunari of any sound mind would see in you.”

“Arrows, if they're on the wrong side.” She does a roll, hands springing on the floor and leaping to her feet.

“I must hand it to you elves, you're certainly flexible.”

“Like that, do you? Good for fun. Too bad for you, you have too many parts.” Pretty though. Prettiest, for a man.

“The same could be said of you.”

She laughs. “All right, let's get on with it.”

He yanks her back before she gets to the door, running his fingers over her hair, attempting to straighten it and sighing. “That will just have to do. Next time you pick up a rusty butter knife, do come to me. I insist all that accompany me be up to my demanding standards.”

“You're a right shit you are.” He scrutinizes her before dabbing a finger to his tongue and using said finger to wipe at the corner of her mouth. “What the shite are you doing?”

“Cleaning off that morning drool. The Inquisitor has returned and I know the advisors would just kill me if I let you talk to her in this state.”

“What? She's back already? Is she glowing?”

“Doesn't she always glow? Unless you're asking if she's with child.” Not what she was asking but Dorian persists. “Can you imagine the scandal? A Dalish Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, knocked up by an apostate elven egg. And one that dresses like a vagabond. The horror.”

“Don't want to think about that,” she squirms away from him, “so shut it and take me to the qunari. It's a woman, yeah? Don't need no horned man.”

“Some of us like horned men. Try to be charming.” He shakes his head. “On second thought, just try not to insult her.”

Sera's out the door, scanning the tavern guests for the Inquisitor but doesn't see her. Iron Bull is on the ground floor talking to a scowly qunari woman with large, curled horns, skin a pale grey, eyes dark as night, hair silver. Herah, Bull calls her. Qunari are big, steady, sensible in a sense, they like order and maybe that's bad sometimes but not now, not when all this shite is going on.

Iron Bull introduces them and Sera stands in front of Herah as if she were a presentation, a gift or something. Sera’s thoughts dart every which way. Sometimes she wishes she could catch them. That's why arrows are good. They're good for pinning but her thoughts are too much sometimes. She likes their quick evasiveness.

Letting them settle is too much like looking to the sky, looking to the Inquisitor, and seeing too far. That mark on her hand, what's it feel like? The qunari is talking to her and Sera blinks.

“Sera’s always been a little distracted,” Bull explains.

“Sorry. Thoughts, right? How about a beer? On you? Had better piss than some of the swill here but it's not too bad.” They stare at her. “What?”

* * *

 

Do qunari know their own strength, she wonders? Should ask Bull but can find out like this. Been wound like a spring, the tension pulling through her, like she needs nocking or something. She thinks of her own hands on the bow, pulling, pulling, pulling the arrow, needing to release it, her arm burning, wanting to see where it goes. Herah’s lips are on her neck, her hands in fun places. Andraste, she’s big, her arms, three of hers.

Outside, Solas and the Inquisitor. Real close like. What do they talk about? The things they won’t say to her? Things she won’t understand? Because she isn’t real? Because she’s stupid? They exchange more words before Solas departs. Their fingertips linger along the edges before they separate and Sera feels something strike against her heart. Ellana’s gaze shifts, lifting and Sera knows their eyes have met, even as Herah’s kisses trail lower. She goes warm. Shite.

The Inquisitor turns away first. Sera wants to chase her. The hunter to her hare. The thought gives her shivers. She closes her eyes but the Herald is still there. Her body is so tight. It’s like she’s made of coils. She needs to get it out, get it out.

* * *

 A/N: Thanks for the feedback, everyone! I'm trying to not post giant chapters. My thinking is that this will allow me to get caught up, but I'm possibly deluding myself.


	3. Chapter 3

The Inquisitor at her door. Sera’s nerves fray. _Keep calm, you pisser._ But she can’t, because she wants to punch her. Oh, sure, let’s go to Adamant. Adamant, she said, not the bloody Fade, full of bloody demons and nightmare things and _nothing_. Nothing, nothing, nothing, so much nothing, so why does it have a hold of her, it’s like the black, it is, can’t see nothing in it but it moves and fills, making her hollow.

_No matter what she says, you can’t forgive her. Don’t matter how pretty she is._

“Sera.” The Inquisitor is hesitant. Good! Looks like she knows she’s done wrong and wants to fix it. So maybe she will forgive her. If she asks right or says the right things. Maybe. “What’s this about you stealing Vivienne’s underwear?”

“Wait, what?” Her underwear? When—oh right. Yeah, she did it. “That’s why you’re here?”

“What are you doing with them? Nothing weird, right?”

“Of course something weird! Why else would I take them?” The Inquisitor gives her a look that’s muddled, bewildered and severe in one. “You have a problem with it? She send you? Didn’t think Vivi was the type to let others fight her battles. Think she’s embarrassed at what I might have be doing with them? That’d be great. I hope whatever she’s thinking is _nasty._ Enough to make her—” And still the Inquisitor stares at her. “What’s the big deal? What do you care what I do with her knickers? It’s funny. Also, she deserves whatever happens cause—she’s a bitch.”

Lavellan crosses her arms lightly. “She’s been far more polite than you have.”

“That’s cause she wants something, stupid. Don’t know what, but sure of it.”

“And you don’t want anything?”

“From you?” She sputters. “You know what I want. Things back to normal. And to get her steamed, sure.”

She’s serious. Blighter. Like a real Dalish. If the whole thing isn’t a bag of piss, she isn’t sure what is. “I just think your time could be used more productively.”

“This is productive. For me. Whatever, it’s fun.” Sera takes a swing at her, impulsively, angry. Lavellan barely dodges. Sera’s relieved, others might have been pissed if she actually got her, but she’s disappointed too because she really wants her to smart.

“What did I do? Is this about the knickers?”

“No, this isn’t about the bloody knickers! I thought you were here to apologize about the Fade, not talk about Vivi’s undies.”

Lavellan shuffles, not quite able to meet her eye. “All right.” She straightens. “Honestly—I thought you’d prefer knicker talk over Fade talk.”

“Yeah, I do, usually. But all that? Never again, you hear? Ugh, why did I even join this stupid Inquisition? I signed up to help—not to be dragged to demon infested Fades and futures. You never take me anywhere nice.”

The Inquisitor smiles wryly. “I can’t say I ever intended on dragging you to any of those places.”

“That’s the problem, innit? You _mages_ , always tinkering around with things you don’t understand. That Coryphyshit—whatever—he’s got that orb yeah, attached it to you. And you taking us here or there. Then that Alexius, sending us to that frigging weird future. It’s a lot, you know. This is why magic is bad. Sure, and make the argument about arrows and swords but arrows and swords can’t send no one into the Fade or some creepy future.”

“I’m sorry.” Simple words, her shoulders slump. She looks proper sorry, she. Maybe that’s all she needs. Still, the Inquisitor looks sad. Not used to seeing her like that. “Let’s… forget the whole underwear thing.” She turns to go but Sera throws a pillow, shutting the door before Lavellan can go through it. “Pillow fight or…?”

Forcing the humor, she is. Might like that. Maybe. Sera steps closer. Maybe she should apologize. But she can’t. That would be rubbish. Magic is bad. Magic creates bad things. Mages are dangerous. That’s all true. She can’t apologize for something that’s true.

“Your face is cut.” Lavellan says. Before Sera can respond, Lavellan’s touched a hand to her cheek. “This happened in the Fade.” How can things that happen in there be real? Oh, no. She doesn’t want to think of it. Had ignored the cut because of it. She can ignore it, it can go away, she won’t have to think about it, she won’t have to think that things in the Fade can be real. _If you shoot an arrow at me, Sera, I’ll know where you are._ No, no, no, shut it, shut it, shut it. Her face warms. First she thinks she’s blushing but then the throbbing that made her face ache subsides. Lavellan lets her go. “There.”

“Why’d you do that? I complain about magic and you throw it at me?” Lavellan lowers her head further. Crikey. She must have forgotten she’s a Dalish. Everyone knows they’re snottier than nobles. “Look—alls I mean is that you could have asked first, yeah? I’m sorry, I’m just…” she paces. “My head is all…” she makes a noise. “How can you stand it, being there, coming out of there, being trapped there? What if you got stuck? Makes me crazy just to think about it.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d care.”

“Well, I do. About some things.”

“About me?”

“Don’t push it.” She sits and pats the padded spot on the window beside her. Lavellan sits, leaving a respectful distance between them. “So, now that Nightmare prick is dead, you’ve got your memories back. Good, yeah? Now you won’t have Cassandra’s hairy eyeball staring you down all the time demanding to know what happened. You’re a Dalish, so it’s good, innit? Now you can go back to thinking all your elfy crap and all is right as rain.” It doesn’t look as if all is right as rain though.

“If only it were that easy.” Sera nods. She doesn’t know why she nods. “It’s not like we all get along. The Dalish we’ve met think I’m some pawn in a human led inquisition. And the only people who believed in me… I got this… _thing_ from a darkspawn magister. It was magic gone wrong. Magic going wrong, _again_.”

“Right!” She looks at her. “Oh. I mean… sure but.” Erm. What to say. Is there something good to say? Something helpful maybe…? What’s wrong with her? Why is she trying to reassure her? Last person she thought she would. “You’re the Inquisitor, so…” That’s not helping.

“The Divine saved me.”

“You tried to save her.”

“But I didn’t. If she’d been the one to walk out of that Conclave… maybe things would be different. Better. It wasn’t Andraste who saved me. I was never her chosen one.” She laughs. “To think, that I bought any of it—how stupid am I?” Not so stupid. “You were right. Andraste wouldn’t choose a Dalish elf. It was a betrayal of my upbringing to even think it.”

“Maybe not Andraste but the Divine. They’ve got her face on plates. So, she must have seen something, yeah? Something worth saving. Or something,” she adds, as if to negate the last she said. “Besides, the Divine is _old_ and we do a lot of walking. She couldn’t have sealed the rifts, even with a glowing hand or other things.”

“I don’t know what any of this means. Cassandra and the advisors must be so disappointed.”

“Piss on that. Look, I like them but you’re closing those rifts and you’ve managed to get away from Coryphyshit a few times now, yeah? That’s something, especially for a scrawny elf.” The Inquisitor smiles faintly and Sera returns it. “You’re doing what you can. That’s good. And back at Adament, you didn’t try to put on a tough show—not like before with your ‘I’m not scared of demons, bring them on’ rubbish. You told Hawke and Cullen to watch out for our people, not us. Liked that. A lot. Little people aren’t meant for throwing away and you know that. It’s important.”

“Thank you. That’s… unexpected but. It means a lot.”

“Oh, sure.”

They sit, staring at each other for who knows how long. There’s a knock and they both get to their feet. “Go away,” Sera says. Her name returns to her, questioned. She opens the door. Oh, it’s the qunari. Herah looks between the two of them, apologizing. “No, it’s good,” Sera says but without much enthusiasm. “Can you give us a minute?”

“That’s not necessary. I’m Ellana,” she reaches a hand out to Herah, who takes it firmly. Sera likes that she introduces herself like that. Like she’s an ordinary person. Even if she’s not, she doesn’t act like a prig about it. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s an honor, Inquisitor.”

“I take it you’re a part of the Inquisition. Thank you, for everything you do.” How does she go on like that? Like the little people are the ones actually doing something to seal the rifts? They are, their own way, but not like her. Sera stands tense. The Inquisitor nods. “I dropped by unexpectedly, I’ll not interrupt further. Goodnight.”

“Your worship,” Herah says, stepping out of the way.

Sera says nothing, the words trapped in her tongue. The Inquisitor leaves. Sera is left unexpectedly resentful of Herah, through no fault of the qunari’s. It feels as if she’s reaching out and grasping nothing, as if what she seeks is just out of reach. Or so far away it’s come back around. Still, close, still far.

* * *

“What’s a First?”

Solas lifts his head and looks at her as if she were merely a figment of his imagination. Weird place, this room he spends all his time in. Murals, tall, telling stories of gods or whatever, a temple to something of its own. There are books scattered everywhere, half their weight, with serrated pages. Pages she wants to touch.

“Why’s it so dark in here?” She continues, though the candlelight is nice. Pretty. Better spent with someone else who isn't Solas.

“Sera!” That young voice, always sad somehow even in excitement. Oh, no. Oh shite no. Of course it’s here. Of course Elfy is spending his time with it.

“I'll come back later,” she tells Solas.

“Sera, don't go.” Cole follows after her and Solas returns to his books. “Lips on your neck, strong arms around you, _isn't this what I wanted_ , but there is something further, green and bright and stretching, you look, want to look, are afraid to look but if you close your eyes you can imagine, want to know, elfy elfy elfy, what's a First, _maybe if I know what a First is—_ ”

Solas looks at her.

“What are you doing?” She's pale and shaking. “Shut it, shut it, shut it! Get out of my head!” She rears sharply on him and he's gone. She's left with the battering of her heart and shame. Forget the question, forget the knowing, not worth it. She hates that thing. Stupid Inquisitor for keeping it around, for not sending it away.

* * *

“I know what a First is,” Sera volunteers smugly. “So, you’re not smarter than me. Fact!”

She knows, yeah. Solas found her after. Bit of a shit, his way. Says _The answer to your question, is what comes before second._ She gave him the dirtiest look she could, he smiled and moved past the doorway to her room, his feet careful on the floor. Weird seeing him out, in some ways, he looks like he doesn’t belong, looks as if he’s only passing through. Where’s he from, she wonders. No one knows. Maybe that’s the one thing they have in common. _I admit surprise, Sera, that you would wish to know more of the elven ways—even if the ways you seek are those of a people so misguided._ He presented her a book, slim enough, slim as her wrist. _It is a work by Brother Genitivi. He spent some time with the Dalish doing research—nearly at the cost of his life. I would ask that you do not deface this work as you are so prone to do._ _If I may ask, what stirred this sudden curiosity?_ _You can ask,_ she said, _but not saying._ _Ah._ _How foolish of me to think you could have depth._ And then he was gone. But his eyes, there was no curiosity, only a knowing that made her squirm.

“I’m pretty sure I never said I was smarter than you,” Lavellan says, “but maybe I am.”

“Oh, har har. So, after this is all over, are you going to go back to your clan, wait for the Keeper to die and then… peddle your rubbish stories to all the wee ones that are shuffled into your clan?” Lavellan sighs. “What?”

“I’m not sure who told you about Firsts and Keepers, but I wish they hadn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because this is the very thing I expected. I don’t like this side to you. It’s ugly.”

Sera flushes. “Yeah, well— your face is ugly.” Lavellan turns to her. Andraste, her face is bloody gorgeous.

“Fine. I’m ugly.”

Doesn’t believe that, does she? That would be daft. She’s just… joking her. Joking…? Fooling her. Whatever, she’s having a laugh at her expense. Or having a laugh to get her to shut up. Something. They wonder the Hinterlands in silence for too long. It’s all bugged out. “I was just trying to make conversation.”

“Next time, don’t.”

But. Sera bites the inside of her lip. Maker. She really is stupid.

* * *

“I’m not dumping a bucket of slop on our ambassador.”

Sera tries to explain the reasoning behind it but the Inquisitor doesn’t budge. It’s like she goes out of her way to be boring and miserable. She tries one last ditch effort: “But… she’s a shem…?” And gets a frown in return. “Right, fine, let’s go see what shadows of birds has.”

The ravens squawk. Ugh, so much shit everywhere, literally, shit. How does Leliana manage it and still smell so clean all the time? Might have worn perfume once but not anymore. Harder to hide with perfume. “What are we looking for?” The Inquisitor asks. “Are you sure we should be doing this? Leliana’s sort of…”

“Terrifying? Yeah, makes everyone shit themselves. That’s why it’s so important. Cully Wully will blow up, fine, they see he’s not always so in command. Grand, he’s human! More human. Prissy pants is stuck though, without the slop. No one’s ever going to relax around her. Too bad, she’s sweet, that one.” She moves to where the Inquisitor’s stopped, a locked chest. “This won’t do. Not interested in her hidden things. Not just for a bit of fun.”

“That’s… remarkably grown up of you.”

“Oh, stuff it.” She smiles. “Must be something, though. We could feed the birds something weird or… Screw up her letters? No…”

“Who’s up there?” Agh, Elfy.

The Inquisitor peers below and Sera snatches her hand, starting to crackle with green light in the darkness. “Let’s go…!” They run out into the night, shutting the door behind them.

“That could have gone better,” Sera says. “I thought you were more fun than this, still, not bad.” She lets go of the Inquisitor’s hand and leaps onto the rampart of the fortress, walking, balancing. “In the beginning you were people, but now you’re different.”

“If only the Dalish didn’t have a stick up their arse.”

“Right? That’s all I’m saying.” Weird, she agrees. Good, she sees. “Want to hear a funny story?”

“That depends. How much do I have to brace myself for whatever crude thing you’re about to say?”

“What? Does the whole circumstance thing bother you? Elbow deep?” The Inquisitor only lifts her head to look at her. “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. That’s a great story. Happy endings.” She giggles.

“Speaking of… I haven’t seen Herah lately.”

“You been looking for her? She’s right fit, yeah?”

“Right. Fit. She’s… very tall.”

“I know. Love it. Not her, though. Anyway, here’s the story. Lady Herah Adaar was on her way to the Conclave. Hired, the way they do the horns, for some Tal… talshavoth? Tal…”

“Tal-Vashoth?”

“That’s it. I think. Stupid words. Anyway, carriage broke down, couldn’t make it on time. Missed the whole bit. Lucky, too, yeah? Or she would have been blown to pieces like everyone else.”

“Or _she_ could have walked out of the Fade with a mark from some magister god on her hand.”

“You think?” Doesn’t like that idea. Whole point of the qunari (sort of) is her size, her non-mageyness. Opposite. Opposites. She shrugs. “But then what’d happen to you?”

“To the Beyond in death with my elfy gods, no doubt. And you’d have a strong qunari woman about to make you happy.”

“Not so simple, as that. Can’t imagine it any other way. It has to be you, yeah?” She hops down from the [flank] of the wall, in front of her.

She laughs softly. “I wish it didn’t have to be.”

“Yeah? Too bad.” So the Inquisitor is elfy and a mage but even so, not too bad. Cares about people. What if it was someone else? Some power hungry shit who turned the Inquisition into something scary, something so big nothing else would ever stand a chance? Maybe being elfy keeps her little. “So…”

“So?” The Inquisitor looks at her. Sera waffles. She doesn’t know what she means to say, if anything. Usually words just come out of her mouth and it’s fine. Piss on what people think. She doesn’t want to be like Solas or Vivienne, always saying the right thing, there’s something… boring like in being so perfect. “If you’re off to meet Herah, you can say so. You won’t hurt my feelings, I promise.”

“Won’t? That’s good.” Is it? Piss. “You’re not keeping me from anything. Herah’s gone. Wasn’t anything, really.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” The way she wanted it. Wasn’t bad, Herah, but no time to spend together, except between the sheets. Fun, but not good enough to hold on to. Everything is always… moving. It isn’t good, the way she wants, until she feels like she has an arrow in her heart, an apple in her throat. They walk along the ramparts. “So… about what I said before…”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“About the Firsts…?”

Lavellan looks at her hesitantly. “Please, Sera. I don’t want to fight.”

“Wasn’t.” She bites her lip. Maybe it’s better not to say anything at all. They lean against the ramparts looking below. Soldiers sit around small fires, chatting. Lavellan studies them thoughtfully. “But even Solas thinks all the Dalish stuff is rubbish,” she says, unable to keep quiet. Sometimes she wishes she could. “Doesn’t that mean something? After all this is done you’ll have to go back to your clan, won’t you? And what will you say to them? That woman who hunted us, Andraste, saved me so—let’s get over it? Your lot never gets over it.”

“We both know Andraste didn’t save me. It was stupid luck.”

“Not so sure. Thought that was safe before—not knowing. Every time things get clearer, it creeps me out a bit more.” She shifts, leaning against the rampart wall to look at her. “Was talking to Varric about it. Who believes and that’s just _crazy_. He’s a dwarf.”

“You’re an elf.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me. Anyway, all the shite you been through, and still you keep pulling through. Maybe he’s right. Maybe Andraste did send you after all, elf or not. Mad, isn’t it? How pretty are you that I actually think this shite is possible?”

Lavellan’s lips part, thoughts collecting. “Maybe you shouldn’t believe it.”

Nothing about the pretty bit? Good, then. Maybe she didn’t hear. But with those ears, she’d have to. Maybe she’s pretending she didn’t hear. That thought makes her a little sick. “Too late for that. Wish I didn’t. It’s like spiders… just… dancing in my brain. Better mine than yours, though,” she grins, “bet that’d drive you bonkers. Spiders in the brain.”

“Let’s not talk about spiders,” she grimaces.

“Fine, then, Lady Inquisitor. What do you believe?”

“I don’t know. Before I joined this Inquisition I thought I had all the answers. I can’t think of anything I know with certainty now.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. For example, do you think I’m ugly or pretty? I can’t make heads or tails of it.”

She did hear! Yes! Yes? “Oh, right. Fishing, are we? Bloody gorgeous, you. Have to know that. Should.”

The Inquisitor laughs softly. Sera swears her cheeks darken in the night. “That’s… um. I have to go, Sera. Goodnight.”

Is she laughing at her? At her, at her? Sera frowns, turning away and moving in the opposite direction. She’s still with Elfy. Stupid. _You’re stupid. Just forget it._


	4. Chapter 4

“Your knees are bloody.” Lavellan stoops in front of her.

Friggin right they are. Stupid bastard noble prig sack of shite pissing pus scum bucket. “Wine, Inquisitor.” Lavellan frowns and sits beside her. “Lord Pel Harmond, 9:41 Dragon; bet it tastes like piss. Lazy piss.” She smacks at her knees, they throb from slamming them into the noble’s face. “So’s this the part where you tell me to get out for being… ‘uncouth’ or what not?” That’s the word, yeah? Heard Lady Josephine use it.

“Sera…” She always seems to sound tired or hesitant around her. “Uncouth is one thing. That was…”

“What? He was a shit. He killed people, my friends, to get to me. They never did anything but find the courage to talk. This isn’t my fault.” Maybe it is her fault. Maybe—maybe Solas is right and she needs to organize things—but no, frig that. Can’t. The more organized they become, the bigger they are. Then they’re not Red Jennies anymore, they’re Blood Jennies. Or something. Something scary. “I mean. We kill people all the time, but with that noble prig, you have a problem?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Then get them out of yours.” She gets to her feet. “Look, do you want me gone or not? If you do, say the word and I’ll go.” She bows her head. “Is that what you want?” Please don’t let it be. She’s the Inquisitor. If anyone could kick her out it’s her.

“Do you want to go?”

“Course not. Still have a lot of questions. I know what the others think about me. They think I’m an idiot and stupid—same thing, maybe—and that I’m selfish and irresponsible but I believe in all of this Inquisition, what it’s for, I believe in you. Don’t send me away.”

She’s thinking, thinking deep. Never know what’s in her head. That thing scares her but sometimes she wishes it could be near, could let her know what the Inquisitor is thinking. Lavellan rises. “That guy was an asshole, no question. But next time… Sera, I need to know you can control yourself. You didn’t even let me finish talking to him.”

“Why should I? Pompous prick was trying to fill your head with shite. He got what he deserved.”

She runs a hand through her hair. “You make my head hurt.”

“Me too. You.”

Lavellan brushes a fleck of blood from her face. Sera is still at the contact. The Inquisitor’s hand is warm. It makes Sera’s skin tingle. “You look better in blue than in red.”

Does she? Has a new sort of armor. Blue, rich, only rich thing about her. But she’s a Red Jenny. Who’s afraid of Blue Jennies? Sounds like a flower. Noble prissy flower. “Maybe I’ll wear more of it.”

“All right.” She always seems to trip into her smiles, gets the better of her. She nods. “We’ll speak later.”

“That’s it? You didn’t even wait for me to answer. Can I control myself? I can. You don’t know but I do.” Hasn’t kissed her, has thought of it so much but hasn’t been able to. Can’t tell how Lady Inquisitor looks at her. Sometimes it seems like in a way that… that could maybe mean something. Why does she want it to mean something? “I like you.”

“I like you, too.” So serious about it, casual in one. “I’ll leave you to clean up.” Sera watches her. She’s always watching her walk away. Fun at first, sad after a time.

* * *

xxx

“Will you stand still?” Vivienne demands. Sera sticks her tongue out at her and Vivienne raises her chin in that snotty way of hers, eyes going somewhere high, as if asking the Maker for strength. “This is Halamshiral, my dear. I will not have you making this Inquisition and our dear Herald look bad.”

Sera is still as Vivienne yanks the crimson jacket closer to her, hands running along her sides to smooth out any wrinkles. “Don't you mean you?”

“As if anyone could possibly associate you with me.” She steps back and looks at her, remains disappointed and brings out a small tube, applying the color carefully to Sera’s lips. She's tempted to bite her. “You know, you might be pretty with a substantial amount of work.”

“Right, maybe. But at least I'm a good person.” Doesn’t need anyone telling her she's not pretty, especially Madame de Fer. She's… You know… all right.

“Tell yourself whatever you like, my dear. For the life of me I cannot fathom why our dear Inquisitor would risk bringing you. This is an important night and your antics will no doubt do her some disservice.”

“I know how to behave.”

“I'll believe it when I see it, darling.” She rubs something into her hands, some soft oils, and runs her fingers over Sera’s hair, combing it with her fingers. Feels nice. If only she weren't such a bitch. She sprays her with perfume and Sera makes the mistake of taking a breath. The fragrant smell fills her mouth, making it taste sour. She tries not to make a face.

“So you think you know everything. Why’d you think the Inquisitor is bringing me along? Maybe she just wants to piss you off?”

Vivienne laughs. “Our dear Herald is far smarter than you could ever conceive. A soirée at the Winter Palace—even the arrival of an arch demon couldn’t ruin that. I suppose you're coming along as an act of charity. Perhaps she wishes to slap some culture into you. I cannot say.”

The Inquisitor walks through the door of the grand chateau they're staying in. She's also wearing the red dress jacket. It looks good on her, skin much like Josie’s. Softer looking, maybe. Vivienne saunters over to her. “My dear Ellana, you are a vision. Remember, do not be intimidated by the Court. You have me as your guide. You are the Inquisitor. You will bow to no one.”

The Inquisitor’s lips glisten, stained deep cherry on them. Sera hangs back while Vivienne drones on about boring court shit, taking a seat on one of the lounge chairs, legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded behind her head.

Eventually the advisors filter into the room, engaging in deep conversation with the Inquisitor. Sera’s left out of it until Lavellan looks her way, beckons her over. “What's on?” Sera asks.

“You're here. The Inquisitor felt you should be part of the conversation,” Cassandra says.

“Ellana is _too_ generous,” Vivienne comments.

Lavellan narrows her eyes. “Enough. We’re all here for the same reasons.” She looks to Sera. “Cullen and Leliana were just going over the plans for the evening.”

“And now that you're here,” Josephine says, “perhaps it is best we discuss proper decorum.”

“What she means, dear, is don't do anything embarrassing. I've already told her, but you know how the dear girl is. In one ear, out the other.”

“Up _your_ ear.”

“Sera knows how important this is.” Lavellan says. “She won't do anything to jeopardize it.”

What? Really? Vivienne just laughs. The rest of them look dubious. Friggin tits. Now she’ll have to be on her best behavior, whether she wants to be or not.

* * *

xxx

The Inquisitor yanks her into the room.

The chatter of the nobles sounds far away here, the music wafting through like a song from long ago. They're wrapped in darkness, in a room with fancy paintings, pricey vases, lacy curtains. Sera’s sure elves don't ever come in here, except to do some dusting or sweeping. No wiping in here—maybe. Now there's two. Usually she'd complain. Usually.

The Inquisitor looks hard at her, only her. She’s fierce. Sera likes it. Part of her burns, parts of her burn with want.

“Nice stunt back there,” the Inquisitor holds fiercely to Sera’s wrist. “You can't help yourself, can you?” Sera can't meet her eyes anymore. “Thanks for making me and the Inquisition look like idiots. I asked one bloody thing of you, Sera. No wonder no one takes elves seriously.”

“I don't know. Seems like you take yourself seriously enough for all of us.” _Look at her, look at her._ Can't. “It’s just a laugh at their expense. Not ours. I mean—what idiot reads that? Thinks it's a real name?”

“You're not even sorry. You're so self-centered. And I'm the one who's going to have to deal with your mess. Creators know you won't take responsibility.”

That's not fair. She takes responsibility. Or… why should she? It's not a big thing. “Soon as someone gets stabbed or shows up in the wrong shoes, it’ll all be forgotten. Relax, Lady Herald. You used to be fun.” Sera glanced at her when that name was read aloud. There was an instant where the Inquisitor’s face fought just so she wouldn't piss herself laughing. Heavy risk—but totally worth it. “You’re letting the big ones turn you into something you’re not.”

“I think I know who—”

Sera pushes her back to the wall, clasps her lips, takes them, tastes the grapes she was eating earlier, tastes the hesitation, something more, buried and trying to climb out. Her lips are so warm. It's like there's a fire inside of her.

Sera pulls away. Looks at the Inquisitor uncertainly. She keeps her hand to Lavellan’s chest, the surprising swell there and the song below, birds wings against her fingers, flutter, flutter and her eyes, piercing as any arrow but as unreadable as the green in the sky.

_You make rifts in my heart._

She doesn't say it, luckily.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Fiiiiiiine. Here's the update. Really, the reason I haven't been rushing to post these is because I haven't written anything on this story in months! If not a year.  After this section I only have 13 pages or so left so... I'm either going to have to write (Hrm) or people will have to be patient with me... Either way, thanks for the reminders and... Here you are.

xxx

* * *

They take time in his study, the Herald and Elfy. Sera keeps track without wanting. Haven’t seen her since Halamshiral, walked past a balcony where she danced with him, looking happy, looking as if none of it happened.

She can pretend, too. She’s good at forgetting. Her easy smiles are still there but now Sera only sees them from afar and wonders if any of that moment is in the Herald’s head at all. She’s stuck, memory of her lips against her own.

It’s all stupid anyway. Never wanted an elf. Qunari, woof, dwarves, precious, humans, an all right sort, but elves—it’s like a bag of chicken necks. Best to forget and move on. But, she wonders, is it because they think she can’t take serious or because of the Jennies? Is it the big hats or do they think she’s stupid and not good enough?

Only her lot make her feel that way. She ruffles her hair. Piss. What she needs is a drink. What was she thinking letting Herah go? She was strong. More strong than flexible but not bad, that. There’s something that needs an arrow through it. She sees Solas and imagines nocking an arrow, taking a piece of his ear so it looks human.

Maybe she’ll fill his bed with lizards. Then it’ll get on him. And her! And spiders. She should use spiders. Bugger them. What does that even look like? Do they make it while talking of their glory? She doesn’t want to think of it.

She sits on the stairs to the Grand hall and stares to the sky, finding the patches of green and letting it move and fill, pulling at pieces of her.

He’s at her side. “What do you look for?”

“Not you.”

“You can see, can’t you? Beyond and beyond there, to the deepest recesses.” She stands, irritated. “We are fortunate. Few of us have the natural talents to allow for such exploration.”

“Only exploring I’m interested in is finding a way to get you to shut it about all this nonsense. Holes in the sky need to be shut so the demons and nasty spirit things stay on that side where they belong. Things need to be restored to how they’re supposed to be.”

“A limited point of view but one I cannot disagree with.” He closes his eyes and draws a deep breath. He looks at her. “What are you looking for, Sera?” she inches away from him inadvertently. “I wonder, if some piece of you remembers being one of the people.”

Snobby prick, same as before, doesn’t know why she’s surprised. Is he like this with Ellana? What is it like to be with someone so far removed from everything? “Get off. I’m still an elf, even if I’m not the way you’d like. Who wants to be that, anyway?”

“Perhaps you, lethallin. You are drawn to the Inquisitor, as your eyes are drawn to the sky. You are drawn to her mark and her power. You are drawn to one of your own. It’s natural. You need not question what is as it should be.”

Nothing natural about it. She bites her tongue, remembering the silken fleeting touch of Ellana’s grazing along it. Brief. Too fast. Imagined, made up, like all the elfy ideas, maybe. “What are you on about? Thought the two of you were a thing.” Please, please don’t let them be a thing, let her be wrong, this once.

He chuckles. “What is between us does not concern you. Ellana is grown. I have no intention of meddling into her affairs. And I would ask that you not meddle in ours.”

Her lip twitches, fingers going into hot, curled fists. “She said.” Better if it was a thing between them, unspoken. But she said and she said to _him_. Did they laugh? Did it make him angry? Did it make things uncomfortable? She hopes.

“We do not keep secrets. Something that must be difficult for one such as yourself to understand. I wonder, Sera, what it is to keep them against our own selves? The time we have in this world is fleeting. One must take these moments and enjoy them without abandon. You are one of the people. I wish you no ill. But my vhenan is my own. I will not relinquish her to you.”

He bows his head and moves on his way, hands laced behind his back.

xxx

* * *

 

“Hey, you.”

Sera sits up from the bench, wipes the tears from her eyes, buries Cassandra’s stupid book beneath a pillow. She is _not_ crying. The Herald is _not_ at her doorstep _seeing_ her cry, greeting her with _her_ usual greeting. Not happening. Lavellan lingers at the door, fingers tentatively gripping as if to fling herself backward should Sera decide to be difficult. Sera tries to decide whether or not to be difficult but can’t, mostly confused as to why she’s there, here and now. “Herald.”

“Did I come at a bad time? You seem upset.”

“Not. Something in my eye. Dust. Maybe.” She wipes at her eyes, wonders if they’re red, embarrassed a little because she’s not pretty, not much, can’t be because no one’s ever really said—but she wants to look at least a little all right in front of the Herald. “What’s on?”

Lavellan cocks her head, regarding her carefully as if she was some odd little enchantment she can’t quite figure. “I… can’t remember the last time I saw you.” Oh, she remembers. Bloody better. “And I’ve come to the uncomfortable realization that… irritating or not, I miss you.” Sera makes her face not move, hard though, especially when her heart is pounding the way it is. “I was hoping we might spend some time together?”

“Doing what?”

“I don’t know.” She hesitates now. “Whatever you’d like?”

“Whatever I’d like? Sure about that?” She stands, crossing her arms. “Can’t remember anything about me you do like, your inquisitorialness.” Lavellan looks a bit stung at that but hides it quick. “What if I say we go ruffle through Vivi’s knickers? Or hide Shadows of Birds’ letters? Or dump a bucket of flour on ser droopy ears’ head?”

“Are you actually suggesting any of those or only trying to get a rise out of me?”

“I could get a rise. Don’t have to _try_.” She paces some in the bedroom, not unaware of how Lavellan’s eyes follow her. _Do you remember?_ She wants to ask. Can’t. Won’t. She knows, does, only won’t say. “Anyway, look. I, ah. I…” Lavellan looks at her. Sera’s face heats. “I don’t care _what_ we _do_ because… I’ve… missed you, too? Not like that. I mean. Not. Not like that.” Piss. She rushes through the rest. “But don’t gawk and think about it, yeah? Let’s get to doing.” She rushes out of the room, happy when Lavellan races after.

xxx

* * *

 

The Herald stops at the door, looking up at the jangling bell. She wears boots but Sera can imagine her curling her toes all the same. Sera beckons with a nod of the head and the Inquisitor cautiously lets the door close behind her. There’s no one at the counter though she can hear someone in the back making noise. It’s been years since she’s been in Denerim.

“Why are we in a bakery?” Lavellan asks.

“They make cookies here.” Even now she feels cold and clammy, her stomach in knots. A look to the Inquisitor and some part of her calms. No one comes and she lifts the bell on the counter, ringing it animatedly until a doughy woman with a pinned, frazzled bun presents herself. Lavellan comes to stand beside her and the woman looks at the two of them, her eyes narrowing as if she’s just been stranded with riff raff. A look to the Herald and Sera sees that gruff unfriendly look on her face that she only seems to get around humans who have a stick up their arse about elves. “Looking for the owner,” Sera says. “Well—I’m not sure if he’s the owner. He worked here. Long time ago. Over ten years.” She lifts a hand. “This tall, I think. He was… a man—with hair, brown, older. I don’t know his name. Or maybe I did but can’t remember.” She threw rocks at him when she was just a wee thing. “He didn’t like me—or so I thought—is he here?”

“I’ve only been here a few years and more men have passed through than I can shake a stick at,” she wipes the glasses up her nose with her elbow and Sera notices she’s got flour everywhere, can smell the sugar in the air, making her stomach grumble, making her hungry, always hungry, she is. “Is there something I can help you with? You will have to buy something if you want to be here.”

“We have ample coin,” Lavellan says and Sera can tell she’s trying to keep her voice composed.

The baker looks at her dubiously and Sera slams a fist on the glass the treats are hidden behind. Lavellan flinches. “Don’t want to buy anything. Want the baker. He was—I think his name was Dantius? Something? He isn’t here?” The woman reiterates that he isn’t, recalls that he died some years ago. Sera storms away, slamming the door behind her so hard that the little bell comes loose and clatters to the floor. The Inquisitor picks it up before following after her. “Ugh. This was stupid. This was all so bloody stupid. He’s dead! That baker. Dantius or Danarius or… Daenerys or whatever his name was.”

“How important could he have been if you don’t remember anything about him?”

“Remember enough.” What was the point of coming back to Denerim? It’s not like she can change anything and to even think of it, to even _try_ makes her feel weird, makes her feel like she’s trying to be like _them_. “I just wanted to say my sorrys and get some fucking cookies. Or a recipe. I don’t know. I don’t know those things. Doing, making things.” Family things. “But now he’s dead and it’s all shite.” She treated him like rubbish for nothing, without knowing any better.

The Herald looks at her, puzzled. “I don’t understand what the big deal is about a bakery. But anyone can see you’re upset about this.” She shifts her face, trying to meet Sera’s eyes even as she scowls into the distance and refuses. “Should I get us cookies? Raisin? Chocolate?”

“No, it doesn’t matter. It was stupid, anyway. Let’s just go.” Pride cookies. Stupid, stupid pride cookies. And is she any better than Lady Emmald? Yes. Got to be. Doesn’t need stupid bakery cookies. She can make her own, on her own, get by that way, the way she usually does.

xxx

* * *

 

Adaar comes round with her horned mercenaries and Sera falls into old habits again. Feels good, this, the talking, the fucking, having someone, little mornings, be there. It’s hard being lonely when the sky’s arsehole has been torn open but she is and she refuses to think of her gracious lady bits, except she does, all the time and Herah, beautiful qunari that she is, isn’t stupid, knows, lies beside her brushing the blonde from her forehead. “Do you want something to eat? I could run downstairs.”

“There’s something I could eat here.” But she _is_ hungry. Fact. She sits up and looks at Adaar, the blanket falling away from her. “Look, there’s something needs saying. You’re great. I mean… looking at you makes me go all tingly places.”

Herah smiles, running her silver tinged fingers along her arm. “Just looking at me?”

“Well, not ‘just’. Lucky me.” She leans down, brushing their lips together but feeling nothing more than the contact. “But there’s someone…? It’s stupid. Can’t get her out my head. I’ve tried everything. Not you. Other things. But you should know. Because even if this is most of what we do—seems like lying not to say. So I’m saying. Cause—you’re grand. And—” Another kiss stills her words.

“Relax. I may be with the Inquisition but I’m still a mercenary. I can’t settle down just yet. Maybe never.” Never? “So let’s have fun and enjoy what time we have. We’re just finding ways to pass time. A _wonderful_ way to pass time.”

“If you say so.” Sera wonders whether it’s better to be relieved or disappointed. The first, she thinks, even if the second hangs like a sack of rocks in her stomach. Herah grips her elbows, hands sliding up her arms and pushing Sera down onto the bed. So strong. She giggles, determined to make the most of this. Woof.

Later they find a white box outside the door in red ribbon. A note with careful hand is attached. _I never thought you shut this door. I expect you’re having fun. I thought you might still be craving cookies from that Denerim bakery so I had Josephine bring some in just for you. Save one for me?_

xxx

* * *

 

Clan Lavellan is gone, just like that. Sera heard a few days ago but hasn’t seen the Herald except a glance, a glance that pierced her through, the Herald’s face ruddy, eyes red and glistening. Sera sent word to her, some clumsy condolences and a few drawings of flowers with sad faces. Hasn’t heard and can’t blame her. The whole thing has her restless and they’re not even _her_ people. So Ellana’s a First. First to what now, exactly? All her family, gone, just like her own, just like Lady Emmald. Does Elfy have anyone? He has Ellana so he’s lucky.

She sneaks into the kitchen in the middle of the night and tries cookies. Flour and… must be other things. Sugar. Raisins, cause she can’t find chocolate. Burns the first four batches and the fifth comes out all right, all right as in not burned, though they’re heavy. She dumps them onto a plate, shoves the plate into a basket before absconding, weird hot, feeling as if she’s done something wrong, like nick a sister’s knickers.

Light comes, noon light comes and then a little further to where it cools. She makes her way to the grand hall, carrying the stupid basket and everyone looks at her as if she’s up to something, as if she’s filled it with lizards and rats, because of the one, two or three times. One of the guard’s gives her a funny look but lets her through to upstairs. Soon as she’s through, she reconsiders. What’s she doing? Bringing her cookies? They’re probably awful. But that’s what people do, right? When people are sad. Stuff them with food, better if it’s good food. Cookies are good. Should be. Even if it’s been ages since she could enjoy them. Didn’t even eat the ones from the Denerim bakery. Kept staring at the box until one day she touched the cookies and they fell apart into crumbs.

Normally she’d burst into the Inquisitor’s room but it doesn’t feel right now. Grief is like… hard and should be able to do it your own way, maybe alone, if that’s better. She remembers that other weird world, the one where the Inquisitor died and Coryphyspit took over it all. Still has nightmares about it, all this time later. Remembers how it felt like her insides had been carved out. She knocks but gets no answer. It’d be better to turn away, forget it and forget the stupid cookies but she turns the doorknob and prays that she and Elfy aren’t bumping their elven glory together.

Room’s big, half the tavern could fit and still have space left. She takes the steps up, thinking Lavellan won’t be there but she is, at the balcony, staring out. Could be she didn’t hear earlier. Funny, the way her shoulders make her look so sad. Sera sets the basket on a nearby table. Normally she’d jump at her and try to get a scare out of her, wake her up, but it’s all wrong for that now so she talks soft. “Hey, you.”

Lavellan turns, slow, unrecognizable with all that sadness, so much of it that Sera’s heart hurts. “Sera. This is a surprise.”

“A bad one?” she grimaces. “I knocked.” She’s careful going close, like getting next to some skittish forest animal, a deer—halla or something, she doesn’t want to scare off. “You all right? Wait, that’s stupid. You’re not. Can’t be. They were everything to you, I can tell.” Lavellan looks at Sera, at her own hands, and blinks her eyes. “Drinks and pranks always make it better but for you, I don’t know, so I’m asking.” Lavellan narrows her eyes and Sera thinks she’s only trying to keep the tears in so she goes to her, not thinking cause when does she ever, and wraps her arms around her, folding her close, fingers along the back of her neck where her flesh is cool but gradually warming. She tenses when Lavellan returns the embrace but relaxes soon after. She doesn’t know how long they hold each other but sooner or later one of them lets go and they have trouble looking each other in the eye. Sera turns, sees how Lavellan wipes quickly at her face, not wanting her to see, proud that one. Can’t tell if she likes it or not. “Have you eaten? Hope so. It’s been days. But it’s like that, grief. You either stuff yourself to fill the emptiness or can’t cause it’s got you full. I just don’t know which one you are.” What she knows is she wants to take her hand, can see the sheen to her cheeks and eyes, wants to wipe it away. Agh, stupid feelings.

“I can’t remember the last time I ate anything. Solas brought a few things. He’s been great.” She shakes her head. “I just…” her fingers clutch above her stomach and for an instant Sera fears their lady Herald has gotten herself knocked up with the egg head’s child. Shouldn’t think about stuff like that now. Not ever but especially not now. Wants to ask. Won’t. “So,” she says, infusing warmth into her voice, “you’ve brought a basket.”

“Right, I did.” She goes to it cheerfully but hesitates at the opening, now that she stops to think about it, _really_ think about it, she can’t help but think the idea daft. Lavellan is grieving and so she’s brought her shitty cookies. Shitty, probably, hasn’t tried but they are. Must be. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. “So I had an idea. Har, har. Even I get them. Right, so.” She pulls out the plate and only now realizes how uncomfortably heavy it is for the handful of cookies she’s prepared.

“You’ve brought cookies.” She reaches out and takes one and Sera notices the confusion when she weighs the damned thing in her hand. “Are these the ones—”

“No, these aren’t Denerim cookies. Probably better, right? For you? Not for me. I hate them. I hate cookies. Stupid pride cookies.” She tells her the story of Lady Emmald, how she took her in when she got caught stealing, took her in when she might have been sent to the alienage or worse, saved her, maybe, but taught her to hate, too. Hate the baker. Hate herself. Hate her own elven-ness. Hate stupid pride whore nobles. “And the worst of it is that I used to love cookies, really fucking love them but when I found out about it all—I just… _couldn’t_ , you know? I know that’s stupid. And maybe I shouldn’t be saying now… You’re sad but I thought—I thought maybe this could make me happy. And maybe it might make you happy. That way they don’t have to be pride cookies anymore. But maybe you’d like that, right? I mean, Dalish.” That pulls a small, sad little smile out of her and Sera isn’t sure if she’s said the very worst thing or the very best. “You’re like… I mean—you’re the Herald. But more than that.” She remembers telling her once that she liked her and Ellana returning the words much too evenly. Probably forgotten all about that, amongst other things. Might have bothered her before but it’s the way she wants it now. To maybe save some of her pride. Shit. It’s all backwards. “You’re more than a title. To me, anyway. So I thought… I thought we could just have ‘us’ cookies. So I can eat them and think of… well. Better things. It’s weird, isn’t it?” She snatches the cookie back from Lavellan. “I knew it. Knew I shouldn’t have.”

“You could let me have my own opinion.” Lavellan takes the cookie back and bites into it. There’s a noticeable crunch and then she flexes her jaw, eyes watering. Her face reddens and eventually she swallows. “Are you sure it was sugar you put in these? And… not salt?”

“Course! I’m not…” she thinks. She saw a bowl with an S. Oh, piss. She has an experimental bite and feels her mouth shrivel. “Oh. Those are shite, shite, _shite_ cookies.” She takes the one Lavellan took, a cookie that Lavellan is all too happy to relinquish and throws it out the balcony. She does the same with the others while Lavellan winces.

“You could hurt someone.”

With cookies? They’re heavy, though. “Right, but letting someone eat them, that’s murder.” She paces. “I thought they’d be better. Hoped they would. That’d be more convincing, right? Shows what Lady Emmald taught. If she hadn’t lied, I’d know the proper way, you could enjoy it and I could pass it down.”

“Pass it down?”

“The recipe. That’s what people do, innit? Traditions. With. You know. Families.” Lavellan inclines her head and Sera kicks herself. Shite. She’s said the wrong thing again. That’s what the Dalish are all about. But this is different. This is something that makes your stomach warm, fills you with happy memories, not reasons, excuses to make other people feel like shit, not reasons for anger and hatreds. “I don’t have one, either. But you’re strong. Maybe not like Cassandra or Herah,” she sees a dimming in her eyes at the second name, “but other ways. All this Inquisitor stuff you do on the regular, that’s right hard, but you do it, you don’t hesitate, there’s so much about you…” she bites her tongue, having difficulty guarding her tongue. “I’d trust you with anything. What happened is awful. There aren’t words. It’ll hurt, yeah. Hurt for a long time. But you’ll make it and for what it’s worth—I’m here for you. Stand by your side, if you want. Through anything.”

Lavellan’s eyes are cloudy, her face a storm of thought and then it clears and there’s another smile. “With a Red Jenny at my side, what could possibly go wrong?”

“Nothing, for you, tons for the baddies, that’s what you want.” She smiles, embarrassed. “Anyway—cookies or not… I’m glad I came by. Happy I told you. Wanted to do it in private. I don’t think I could stand it if you laughed—in front of others.” In private that’s okay, maybe. Hurt less.

“I wouldn’t. I don’t. Sera—”

There’s a creaking below, the opening of a door to the chamber. The sound is enough to rattle Lavellan and whatever it is she meant to say dies on her lips. Solas arrives at the head of the stairs with a platter of grapes and other fruit, crackers and cheeses. A proper meal that makes Sera feel stupid and jealous for not thinking of it, for saying too much again. But he’s watching over, caring for Ellana in ways she doesn’t know how. Makes her depressed a little but happy for the Herald that someone knows the right way.

“Why don’t you stay?” Lavellan asks and Sera sees the slight narrowing of Solas’ eyebrows at the suggestion. “There’s enough for everyone.”

“Pass. I’ve got things to do.” Not really. “Be lost in a conversation with your lot anyway.” That part’s no lie. She flicks her eyes away and grabs the basket. Feels a glancing touch at her back and turns to have Ellana circle her arms around her, this hug far briefer but in front of Solas, so that’s enough. She can’t figure out who hates her more, he or Vivienne. “Feel better, yeah?”

A nod. “Thank you for visiting. And the letter.” Oh. She got it. “It means… I’m grateful.” Sera nods absently. Nothing about the cookies decided but that’s all right and here, now with Elfy, she won’t press. “Give me a little time. We’ll set up cookie dates.”

She nods too quickly, doesn’t want to talk any more about it. Solas would laugh. He would absolutely laugh. So she flies, her heart does, and she nearly trips over her feet, almost falling down the flight of stairs before catching herself. She takes the steps down quickly and hears Solas speak to Ellana, his voice different, softer, like her love makes him better. Would. Why wouldn’t it? _Ma vhenan._ Looked it up. Knows what it means. Why can’t he say it proper? Why must it be said like a secret? But she knows why, the way she would, to keep others out. Wouldn’t want to share her. Never. The words, thoughts, are pretty in ways that lash at her insides, hurting in ways others can’t see.


End file.
